


how to be charming & sincere

by neroh



Category: Into the Woods (2014), The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Comedy, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Curse Breaking, Disney References, Fairy Tale Curses, Fairy Tale Elements, Falling In Love, First Time, M/M, Rare Pairings, Witch Curses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 10:05:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3170813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neroh/pseuds/neroh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While searching for his wayward brother and his bride, Prince Charming encounters a witch's curse and storm that brings him to the shores of Rohan. And conveniently into the arms of one horse lord named Éomer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how to be charming & sincere

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to do another unusual crossover and these two fandoms are a match made in heaven (at least in my mind). I borrowed the names of the princes from Star Trek, as well as some elements from Disney's _The Little Mermaid_ and _Beauty and the Beast_. 
> 
> Huge thank you to Anna, Dommi, Ricechex, Nicole, Conners, and the other usual suspects for humoring me on this one. Love you guys!

Not that long ago there was a prince, whose good looks and charm were known throughout the realms.

These qualities were praised in song and poetry and as you can expect, it eventually went to his head. His father had died when he was a young boy, leaving him and his brother in the care of various nannies while his mother ruled the kingdom. They indulged the young princes per the queen’s orders and as a result, they grew up incredibly spoiled.

Yet he was of a kind heart, a small mercy because there were plenty of egotistical princes who weren’t. When he was fourteen years of age, James was playing with wooden swords on the front lawns of the castle. His brother was hiding up a tree when a young peasant girl came upon them to watch in curiosity. Her father was conducting business with the cooks and had left her to her own devices. James asked her if she wanted to play and when it was time for her to depart, he offered her his sword. He could have another made and he wanted his new playmate to have one.

The steward who had come out onto the lawn that very moment, chided James as the girl skipped off with the toy. “What were you thinking, your highness?” he bellowed as he dragged the young prince back to the castle. His brother, Samuel, followed behind them as he idly swung his sword around.

“She wanted to play!” James told the steward, aptly named Stuart. He cast a look of disdain towards Samuel. “Unlike someone who’d rather hide up a tree.”

Samuel pouted. “But you always win!”

“Perhaps if you practiced—” James began to say when the steward yanked on him. He noticed that he was turning a brilliant shade of purple.

“Your Highness, you mustn't be sincere in your actions,” Stuart told him. “You are meant to be charming, as all princes are. Your subjects will take advantage of you and will demand more until you have nothing left to give!”

James wrinkled his nose at the statement. “But aren’t those both mutually exclusive?” he asked innocently enough, only to be grounded by his mother.

So the charming prince James learned a valuable lesson; always be charming, but never sincere. It would serve him well in the coming years as he grew into manhood and seduced the fair maidens of his kingdom. Because of his lack of sincerity, James entered a very misguided marriage to the young Cinderella. Luckily for both of them, it ended as quickly as it began and allowed James to search for his wayward brother and his bride, Rapunzel, who had disappeared in the chaos of the giantess terrorizing their kingdom.

However this adventure would not end in the retrieval of Samuel and his bride, but in James’ own character development and how he overcame the personality flaws that he learned at an early age. If he didn’t, he would just be another extraordinarily good looking, yet incredibly shallow prince and those come to a dime a dozen.

And what would be the fun in that?

 

* * *

 

Prince James finds himself wandering the docks of Port Calormen, where he waits for his ship to be ready for its sea voyage.

The captain is able and has a stellar record, according to Stuart who has made all of the arrangements. “Princes,” he explained while poo-pooing his nose at James drinking a tankard of ale, “are not to trouble themselves with idle tasks such as _planning_.”

James knows well enough not to question his ever faithful steward, who is prone to having a nasty temper when pestered enough. He leaves him to planning while the prince goes in search of activity to keep him from sinking into boredom.

The port is fairly busy in the offseason, though not enough for James. While charming and good-looking, he is a curious fellow who secretly delights in reading. He remembers hiding under his bed with a lantern and one of his father’s leather-bound books when he should have been sleeping. He read of knights and kings who slew dragons and won wars, of beautiful maidens who swore their undying devotion, of villains who met a grisly and well-deserved end.

James has never been allowed to partake in the princely duties that killed his father because his mother feared for her children’s safety. So he reads about bravery, love, and a life that isn’t anything like his own. It suits him just as well as it allows time for James to woo the ladies of the land. His infatuation does not last more than a night and if truth be told, he envies the love that Samuel found with the maiden, Rapunzel.

He decides to turn back towards the ship before Stuart has a heart attack. Perhaps his companion will not be a seafarer and will stay below-deck so that James is free to explore the workings of the craft. He had inspected her upon their arrival, marveling at the detail and care that went into building the ship.

“It’s truly amazing, don’t you agree?” James had asked, only to be ignored by Stuart. It’s not unusual for the prince’s intellectual musings to be dismissed by all around him, though it annoys him well enough.

As the ship comes into the view, he truly hopes that the steward falls ill. James starts up the gangway when someone clears their throat. He turns to see an old crone with shocking blue hair, like the afternoon sky or his mother’s favorite gown. “May I help you?” he asks.

“Such a pretty face,” the crone tells him with a smile of rotted and crooked teeth. “And such lovely eyes; I know that you can see a person in distress.”

James’ lips quirk into a smirk. “Perhaps,” he says coolly.

“My sister has fallen ill, but she does not reside in this land,” the old crone explains, looking downcast. “I would like to tend to her recovery, but I lack the money for passage to her land.”

He nods in understanding before slapping her hunchbacked shoulder. “Perhaps you can send a letter, good lady,” James replies as an uneasy grin appears on his lips. “After all, it’s the thought that counts!”

“You misunderstand me, young man,” the crone grunts. She reaches for his wrist with a surprisingly strong grip and halts the prince’s efforts to hurry away. “Could you find it in your heart to allow me passage on your vessel?”

James glances up the gangway where the crew is finishing their preparations and then back at the crone. Blue hair and horrible teeth aside, she has a hooked nose that is in dire need of bewitching and skin so wrinkled it remains him of parchment. “Since I am not the captain, I cannot allow you on board without proper payment,” he lies since he’s a prince and he can do whatever pleases him. James hopes this dissuades her from pressing the issue.

“I have this,” the crone says as she reaches into her tattered robes. She pulls out a pendant whose surface catches in the sunlight, gleaming gold.

James stares at the object as she places it into his hand until the chain it hangs upon curls up against his palm. It’s a golden hourglass, whose sand is replaced by fine grains of silver. He flips it back and forth, enthralled by the trinket.

“I can give you this pendant in exchange for passage,” the crone tells him, peering over his shoulder. She is smiling at him.

He frowns and thrusts the object back into her hand. “You probably stole this,” he declares. “And I cannot aid and abet a criminal!”

“I _did not_ steal it!” she declares, aghast.

“It’s probably not even real gold!” James retorts, gesturing crudely. “I will not waste my resources on a tale of woe and a cheap trinket.”

The crone purses her lips. “You value nothing.”

“I value plenty,” he says. “My looks, my charming demeanor…”

“Nothing of worth, such as love,” the crone spits. She points her knobby finger at him. “You should value your loved ones beyond material possessions because in the end that is all you have left!”

James rolls his eyes and is about to reply when he realizes that the crone is simply gone. He looks around, trying to spot her because it is doubtful she is that quick to vanish. Confused, James scratches the back of his head and starts to wonder if he imagined the entire thing.

“Your Highness!” his steward bellows from the ship. “Come along! The captain says we are ready to depart.”

“Yes, yes,” James calls dismissively as he searches for the crone again. He shakes his head and starts up the gangway. “Coming!”

 

* * *

 

The first few days of the prince’s sea voyage is met with good winds and gloriously clear weather.

Stuart remains below deck, citing seasickness which allows James to explore the ship and partake in various crew duties. He helps clean the decks and hoist the sails with the sun bearing down on his skin. James knows that royals are not supposed to do hard labor or sweat, but he enjoys the work and it earns him a measure of respect from the ship’s crew. The prince also finds time to teach the cabin boy, a young lad of ten years of age, how to do sleight of hand when their tasks are done.  They sit on the quarterdeck steps as James shows him a gold coin with his mother’s likeness and makes it disappear between his fingers. The cabin boy, Ladmar, gasps with wide eyes as he grabs James’ hand to see where he hid the coin.

“Can’t find it, can’t you?” he teases, reaching behind Ladmar’s ear. “Because it’s right here!”

Ladmar shrieks in delight and claps. “Do it again, Prince James!”

“Now watch carefully,” the prince laughs as he goes through the motions of making the coin disappear and reappear. He’s not sure how long they’ve been sitting there, but it’s the most fun James has had in quite a while.

Ladmar is called away by the captain, much to the boy’s dismay. The prince gives him the coin as they rise to their feet. “So you can practice,” James tells him as he pats the cabin boy’s head.

“Thank you, Prince James!” the boy chirps as he runs off to show the captain his new prize. The captain laughs heartily and leads Ladmar away.

“Your Highness,” the steward calls, sounding ill. When James turns around, he finds his companion still looking a bit green. “Now he will expect you to give him more coins and show him more tricks!”

James sighs with a heavy shrug. “Then so be it! I have plenty of coins and more than enough time to entertain Ladmar during our voyage.”

“As a royal, you are not supposed to _mingle_ with your subjects —”

“He is hardly one of my subjects,” James argues.

“That _is not_ the point, your highness,” the steward groans. “You must keep yourself out of reach. It gives you an air of authority…respect. All royals should be respected!”

The prince only half-listens to the steward’s lecture. He leans over the railing of the ship and stares into the glittering water, nodding and making sounds of acknowledgment when he hears his name. As his companion prattles on, James hopes that he falls overboard just so he doesn’t have to listen to him.

Hours later, James finds himself in better spirits as he and the crew celebrate their good fortune on their travels. A hearty ale is flowing freely on deck along with sea shanties that James learns quickly enough. Most of them are bawdy and would surely make his brother blush if he were here.  It’s only a matter of time before some of the crew brings out their instruments; flutes, lyres, and fiddles.

His steward, on the other hand, does not look amused and appears quite close to throwing up. He clutches his tankard of ale as he sits in the corner with a scowl on his face. When James’ voice rises above the rest, his features turn into a frown as he mutters about how royals should behave or that he will have a few words with James’ mother when they return.

As the festivities continue, the stars overhead are slowly overcome by swirling storm clouds and distant claps of thunder. It’s only when drops of rain pelt those above deck that they realize that they are headed into a storm.

“Perhaps we should turn around,” Stuart says worriedly to the captain.

The captain and James exchange a look. “It’s just rain, good man!” he says, slapping the steward on the back.

“Drink up, steward!” James agrees with a laugh. “A little bit of rain never hurt anyone!” He flashes the older man his most charming smile before finishing the rest of his tankard.

In most stories, the protagonist learns rather quickly that they have spoken too soon, which is the case with Prince James. Within an hour, the ship is tossed around in violent waves and pelted with hard rains. Thunder roars overhead while lightning shoots across the sky. The prince is assisting some men in tethering the mast, ignoring the bite of rope burning his palms.

“Oy!” yells one of the crew as a bolt of lightning lands far too close to the ship. “We’ll all go down with the ship if we don’t turn around, captain!”

James is turning to hear the captain when he sees a wave barreling towards them. He yells out in warning and holds onto the tightly as possible as the waves crash over him. For a moment, the prince feels weightless. The feeling doesn't last as he’s unceremoniously dumped onto the deck along with the other crew members who held onto something. James grunts, palming sea water out of his eyes. “Steward!” he yells.

“I hate ships, your highness!” calls his companion.

“Here comes another!” shouts the captain before his voice is drowned out by wind and water.

James ends up being flung with the rope and his body is met with the sudden impact of a solid object. The air in his lungs rushes out and he swallows sea water instead of oxygen. When the wave recedes, James drops down to all fours and gags, spilling more water from his lips. His head throbs painfully and the world sways when James rises to his feet. He sees the mast several paces in front of him, torn apart by the storm. It is sheer luck that no one was caught in its fall.

“Abandon ship!” the captain bellows. James sees him charging the lifeboats that dangle off the sides of the vessel. The steward is following behind him, searching for his royal charge in the flashing lights.

The prince follows, leaping over the side of the mast and scrambling over the top. There he helps crew members over to the other side, towards the safety of the boats. The Steward's chastising him again, explaining how a prince should proceed his subjects into the lifeboats instead of helping them. At least that's what James thinks the other man is saying, his voice obscured by the howling wind and crashing waves, only picking up bits and pieces of how a prince should not be helping others to safety.

“I’m speaking to mother about a new steward when I return home,” he grumbles to himself as he hops down from the broken mast. James is rushing across the deck when he hears a small voice call his name. He turns, shielding his eyes from the rain to see Ladmar sprawled on the ground with his foot caught under a pile of fallen barrels. “Ladmar!”

James rushes towards the boy, slipping through the remaining distance and crashing into the barrels. He wheezes as he gets to work in freeing Ladmar. “Are you hurt?” he shouts over the storm.

“I think I turned my knee when I fell,” the boy replies. His face is filled with fear as he looks up at the prince. “I thought you would have left me here!”

James shakes his head as he removes the last barrel and helps Ladmar pull his leg free. “I would never do that,” he declares as he picks the boy up. “Come, let’s get on one of the lifeboats before the steward has my head!”

He takes another step and lets out a surprised shout as his foot goes through the deck. James pushes Ladmar out of his arms and to safety. He doesn’t fall far, only to the deck. His foot twists painfully and James curses his rotten luck.

“Your Highness!” a crew shouts as he rushes over to them.

He motions towards Ladmar. “Get him off the ship!” James replies as he starts to work his foot out of the hole. “I’ll be right behind you!” As he's carried off, James hears the boy's shout followed by a woman's cackle. James glances up and a surprised shout escapes his lips as he finds himself face to face with the old crone, who seems immune to the storm. “You!”

“Good evening, your highness,” she drawls as she observes him. “It seems you’ve found yourself in quite a pickle.”

James wipes his hair out of his eyes. “You did this!” he growls.

“The storm? No, I wish that was my doing, but alas,” the crone replies with a sigh. “A witch can only do so much and it takes training to control the weather. I only had so much patience.”

He yanks on his leg, swallowing back the groan of pain as wood digs through his breeches. “Do you even have a sister?” James barks.

Lightning crashes down, setting the deck ablaze. Both he and witch start as the flames lick the wooden ship and travel swiftly towards them.

“No,” the witch says as she circles him. “But you need to learn a lesson in valuing a loved one.” She hushes James when he opens his mouth to retort. “You only value the love you have for yourself, which is not love but vanity.”

The Prince rolls his eyes. “So you’ll have me drown to prove your point?” he deadpans. The witch grabs his arm, shoving his wet sleeve up to reveal his forearm. “Hands off of me, you troll!”

“You have one year from this date to fall in love,” she purrs as she taps his skin with the end of her fingernail. The witch smiles as his arm glow momentarily before she lets go. “You must earn their love in return before the sand runs out.”

James clutches his arm. “Wait, what?” he cries, confused until he looks down to see a golden hourglass tattoo etched into his skin. The top portion is full, just waiting for the curse to be activated.

“If you are unable or unwilling,” the witch sneers, “you will forget yourself and shall remain that way for the rest of your life. How’s that for a lesson?”

The prince lunges for her, only to find that his leg is freed from the floorboards and the witch has vanished once more. James shakes his head before limping to his feet. He hears the other crew members in the water below and hobbles towards the railing.

James feels a blast of heat against his back, followed by the sound of something crackling. He turns his head to see the fire engulfing the barrels, which he belatedly realizes are full of gunpowder. It is strange to watch the flames catching onto everything in their path; as if the world is slowing down. A thunderclap brings the prince out of his reverie and he goes to move when he hears the explosion.

 _This is it,_ James thinks as he’s swallowed by darkness.

There are fragments of memory as James flies through the air; the deafening rush of wind in his ears, the sound of the ship collapsing under the fire, the cries of the crew, and the storm that continues to rage on.

He opens his eyes in time to see the ocean rushing up to him, vaguely registering the painful impact and ice cold that surrounds him. The latter brings him around and James struggles to the surface. His fingers claw through the water, touching air, and he propels himself upward. The prince hardly has time to open his mouth when a wave knocks him back under, tossing him around like a ragdoll before forcing him back to the surface once more.

James sucks in a deep breath despite the stinging that comes from his midsection and coughs when he exhales. He can feel bruises blossoming all over his body as he struggles to stay afloat. “Find the boats,” he whispers to himself as he starts to swim. His left arm shrieks in pain, the bones splintering and grating on top of one another. James cries out and dips below the water, coming up a moment later. He sputters as he searches the area for help.

It comes in a form of what used to be a door, that bumps his back as it floats behind him. James grabs onto the brass handle, using his good arm, and hoists himself onto it. His head is aching and his vision blurry as he lays on the door, exhausted.

He hears the cries of the crew, who call his name over the storm and sinking ship. In between the waves, James can make out the lanterns on the boats that look like stars in the distance. “I’m right here,” he whispers into the darkness, trying to keep his eyelids from slipping shut. “Right here…”

Alas, there is only so much trauma a single person can take, even someone in peak physical form such as our charming prince. He passes out on top of the door, not realizing that as he rests he’s drifting farther and farther away from his home.

Or that the hourglass tattoo lights up against his skin like a beacon to the heavens before dimming once more.

 

* * *

 

Our prince’s voyage from the shipwreck to his next destination is a bit hazy, as it would be for someone who just survived a storm, a witch, an explosion, and near drowning.

He and his discarded door float in an unnamed sea while the weather varies from mild to freezing when the moon is overhead. James is unaware for the most part; he lies unconscious on his wooden savior. It’s not to say that he doesn’t sporadically regain his sense during his journey; when the pain of his injuries or the dreadful coughing that makes his chest ache becomes too much for James to rest through. There is also the unbearable thirst and teeth-chattering cold, as well as the burning sun that bears down on whatever skin is exposed.

All James sees is the ocean, glittering under either sun or moon, and its vastness. He is surrounded by blues, greens, and sometimes black if he happens to wake during the night. The waves are gentle as if they know that the prince is ailing, and they rock him back into a dreamless sleep.

On the afternoon of the third day, when the sun is just past its highest point, James has washed ashore on a beach whose sand gleams under the rocky cliffs of Rohan. The land of Rohan is quite lovely in other circumstances and is known for its cavalry and horse training. It sits in the great vale between two mountain ranges, several rivers, and the forest of Fangorn. The people of Rohan are mostly peaceful folk but can be quite fierce if their neighbors or themselves are threatened with violence.

It just so happens that the Riders of Rohan are going through their exercises and require the beach to perform drills. As their horses gallop down to the shoreline, their leader, Éomer, spots a strange object on the otherwise pristine beach.

“Halt!” he cries, raising a hand towards his troops. Éomer guides his horse several paces ahead of the riders and dismounts to investigate. He walks towards the object, realizing as he draws closer that it’s not just an object.

“What is it?” one of his men, Amrothos, cries.

Éomer’s mouth falls slack in surprise. “It’s a man!” he calls back, dropping the reins to his horse and rushing over to the stranger. The rider drops to his knees to better inspect James, pressing his fingers under the fallen man’s nose to feel for breath. “He’s alive!”

Amrothos is at his side, staring at the injured man. “Where did he come from? Any enemy ship?”

“He is dressed in too much finery to be one of our enemies,” Éomer comments as he goes to tap the prince’s cheek. The skin is abraded and warm to the touch. “Fetch me a skin of water while I try to rouse him.”

It takes several moments for James to open his eyes under the rider’s touch. He goes to move away from Éomer’s hand and finds his stomach roiling. The prince weakly pushes himself to the edge of the door and vomits seawater onto the beach. The act itself ignites a searing pain in his body that starts at his boot covered feet and ends at the root of his salt-encrusted hair. James continues to wretch until he’s hacking up phlegm and bile.

“By the mists and all things scared, he’s swallowed half the sea!” Amrothos exclaims as he hands Éomer the skin of water.

The prince rolls his eyes at the loud voice and lies his head against the door. “Where?” he rasps through chapped and blistered lips.

“You are on the shores of Rohan,” Éomer tells him as he cups the back of James’ head and lifts him so that he can drink from the skin. He watches the stranger drink, taking slow sips of water. “I am Éomer, the King of the Rohan. Do you know yourself?”

James nods as Éomer moves the skin away. “I am Prince James of Andalasia,” he grunts. The effort of speaking is tedious and makes his entire body ache. So he uses his sight to take in his rescuer; a man with wheat colored hair that falls over his broad, armor-clad shoulders.

“Well James, you will come to no harm here,” Éomer says as he lays the prince back down. One of his men that carries a worn leather bag approaches. “Do you mind if one of my medics takes inventory of your injuries?”

The prince moves his head and relaxes, indicating that Éomer has permission to do what he will. The medic tries to be quick about his task, clucking and muttering to himself before declaring, “His arm is broken. It can be given a field dressing to allow us to move him, but Dwareclya will need to reset it.”

“I could have told you that,” James grouses, earning a snort of amusement from Éomer.

“I’ll send two men back to the Riddermark for a wagon,” Amrothos says.

Éomer shakes his head. “A fever has already set in,” he states while removing his cloak. “Waiting for one of the wagons will only worsen his condition and Dwareclya will likely have all of our hides.” He hands the article of clothing to the medic. “Use this to bind his arm and we will ride ahead.”

The process of creating a sling for Prince James’ broken arm is tedious at best.  It takes time to get him upright without the prince feeling sick to his stomach or crying out in pain. Once he’s leaning against Éomer’s solid frame, the task goes well enough even if James wants to vomit.

“That should hold for the ride back,” the medic declares sympathetically.

Getting James onto Éomer's horse proves to be a more difficult task; broken arm aside, the prince is covered with cuts, burns, and bruising that is so deep that the skin looks black. He is shaking in agony by the time he’s resting in the saddle with Éomer situated behind him.

“Perhaps we should have waited for the wagon,” James says hoarsely. The world is starting to sway again and his vision is lined with black spots.

Éomer chuckles. “Trust me when I tell you, Prince James, that the wagon would have been far worse.”

“It depends on the individual’s idea of worse,” the prince replies, blinking furiously as Éomer nudges the horse.

The king shrugs. “How did you come to be on our shores?” he asks. “I reckon that it was not easy from the looks of you.”

“The ship I was traveling on was caught in a storm,” James answers tiredly. He groans when the horse gains momentum and they are cantering up a trail towards lush green fields.

Éomer’s grip around the prince’s waist tightens. “A shipwreck? That explains your injuries,” he says.

The allure of oblivion taunts James as they ride on; anything to keep him from feeling his bones grating on top of one another sounds like heaven. His head droops until it’s cradled against his rescuer’s chainmail covered shoulder. The prince realizes that Éomer is still speaking, telling him of the summer storms of his childhood and what treasures the sea brought to the shores.

James keeps listening because it takes his mind off the pain until he realizes that the king’s voice is coming from a distance.

And then there’s nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

The prince’s respite is only a brief one and he wakes to an unfamiliar ceiling those wooden beams are exposed. 

James goes to turn his head to survey more of his new surroundings, only to cough violently. It shakes his entire body, setting off the pain James hoped would be gone. Phlegm forces its way up his throat until he has no choice but to expel it.

Someone places a bowl under his lips just in time. “That’s it,” a woman says over the sounds of his gagging and whimpering. “It’s all right.”

The bowl vanishes, replaced by a cup filled with water. The woman silently urges James to drink, tilting the glass so that the water falls into his mouth. The coolness touches his lips, soothing the cracked and chapped skin before doing the same to his mouth.

“His lungs are ailing,” declares another woman who the prince cannot see. A blanket is lifted off his leg and she makes a sound of disappointment. “And the wound to his flank is starting to fester.”

James groans as the blanket is set back down. In his blurred vision, he sees the shape of a woman whose hair is blonde, nearly white. “My arm,” he whispers, closing his eyes.

“Hush now,” the woman tells him. She presses a cool hand to his forehead and brushes his limp hair off his skin. “My name is Éowyn and this is the healer, Dwareclya. Your arm must be reset in order for the bones to mend properly, but you’ll be given a sleeping draught so you feel no pain. Do you think you can drink?”

The prince doesn’t nod, but opens his mouth. Another cup of earthy fluid is pressed against his lips, and it stings the tender flesh as he drinks down the draught. One of the women gives him more water before laying him back down while someone enters the room.

“How does he fare?” Éomer’s deep voice asks. Soon he appears over James, who opens his eyes at the king’s looming presence.

“Your foundling prince suffers from an affliction of the lungs; the exposure to the elements is most likely the culprit,” Dwareclya explains. “With his other injuries, he will be ill for quite some time. I have given him a draught so he will not be conscious when the Lady Éowyn and I reset his arm.”

James feels a stir of panic in his chest at the healer’s words. “I can’t be ill,” he mumbles. “I’m a _prince_!”

“Even sickness affects those of royal lineage,” Éowyn laughs as she dabs his forehead with a damp piece of linen.

“My brother!” he exclaims just as the draught takes effect. “I must find him and his wife…” Éomer places a hand on his bare shoulder and it is then that James realizes that he’s dressed in naught. “Where are my clothes?”

Éomer chuckles. “Tell me of your wayward brother and his wife,” he gently urges.

“A giantess attacked our kingdom,” James starts to explain. “In the chaos, they ran away.”

“Well that’s not very princely of him,” Éomer comments.

James’ lips twitch. “Samuel does not think much through,” he says as he grows weary. “He’s a bit daft, if you ask me.”

“Daft or not, he will be thankful that you are searching for him,” Éomer tells the prince.

He shrugs or at least attempts to. “Samuel is not the thankful sort,” James replies. “He thinks this is all a part of duty; risking our lives, banishing the enemy.”

“Nonetheless, your brother will appreciate the peril you have put yourself in,” the king says with a smile that is blurring rapidly. “The draught is taking effect, my lady healer.”

It’s the last thing our young hero hears for quite some time which is probably just as well since who wants to hear the crunching of their own bones?

 

* * *

 

James recalls a time that he caught a cold from his brother and how miserable he had been. 

His mother, the queen, and Samuel never came to see him while the young prince laid in bed. He remembers his chambers being incredibly lonesome and that the hours crawled by at a snail’s pace. James had not been permitted to play with his toys or even read, but there had been a nurse who told him stories as she wiped his brow. Her soothing voice had made his circumstances seem less awful and it seems that someone has taken it upon themselves to do the same thing now.

The prince suffers through fevered dreams and coughing fits that leave him feeling like his lungs are in a vise. Someone speaks to him in a soft melodious voice, whispering tales that James has never heard and reciting poetry in a foreign tongue. Even when he shouts of enchanted hourglasses and witches with unusual hair coloring, they are there to hush him and ease him back to a doze.

Lying his back with his arm wrapped up in a sling of fresh linens and a cast that holds the bones in place, James remains still as the healer and Éowyn dab his brow with damp flannels to cool his fevered skin and rub calamine on his lips. They speak in hushed voices and check the poultice on his flank, watching its progress as it heals the wound. The cuts and burns that litter his skin are treated with creams and compresses that soothe his ailments. These are the times that the prince is able to rest fitfully.

Then there are times that James is mostly aware of himself; he knows he’s in a strange land and has fallen ill. He notices the intricate carvings in the wooden beams above the bed he lies on and studies them now that his vision has improved since coming to this place.

“You suffered a head injury,” Dwareclya explains as she feeds James a bowl of broth. “As you regain your health, you will find that its effects will lessen.”

He doesn’t say much, as it aggravates the wet cough that makes him feel like he’s going to expel his lungs rather than the foul smelling catarrh that he ends up choking out. The task makes his midsection ache the most, where Dwareclya and Éowyn have bound his ribs tightly, and jars his broken arm. And quite honestly, James is too tired to carry on a conversation beyond a few words.

The healer raises the bowl of broth in offering and frowns when the prince shakes his head. “Your appetite will grow,” she assures with a serene smile. Dwareclya rises to her feet when Éomer enters the makeshift infirmary as James hears his voice.

“How does our foundling sea prince fare this eve?” the king asks.

The lady healer laughs. “Better than the day before, but ‘tis early in his recovery,” Dwareclya tells him, casting a glance in James’ direction. “Do not tax him with questions, my lord. Your foundling prince is weak and tires easily.”

“He is hardly mine,” Éomer scoffs as he comes into view. The helmet he wore when they met is gone and James can see the smirk that the king gives in greeting. When the prince does not return it, Éomer looks quite concerned. “Is he alright?”

The healer shakes her head and leaves the room, shutting the door behind her. James watches the perplexed expression on Éomer's face grow before he turns back to the prince. “I have come to check on your progress,” he states, taking a tentative step towards the sick bed. Éomer’s eyes travel over James’ face and he raises his brows. “This is the first time I’ve seen you truly awake. I reckon that this is a good thing.”

“You were here before?” James intones, swallowing. He winces at the sting his throat produces; from the seawater and his illness more likely than not.

Éomer nods as he reaches for a cup, which he fills with water. “A fair few times,” he replies as he helps the prince sip from the object in his hand. “I’m not surprised that you don’t recall; your fever was at its worst.”

“ _Was_?” James rasps, wondering how it could have been worse.

Éomer smirks knowingly. “Than now,” he amends as he sets the cup down and sits in the chair next to the bed. “I know what Lady Dwareclya says, but how do you fare?”

“I feel awful,” the prince answers, closing his eyes. He shifts under the blankets and grunts when his arm twinges at the movement.

A sympathetic expression crosses over the king’s face. “Tis not unusual, though I must confess I have never been shipwrecked,” Éomer comments. “I have been in battle, but that is different. My enemies were living beings while yours was the sea.”

“Both are just as tiring,” James murmurs. His body is hurting and he wonders where the healer is with his medicine; the one that makes him sleepy and the pain simmer down to a dull ache.

“Perhaps,” Éomer says.

James opens his eyes. “Thank you for your aid and hospitality,” he tells the king. Getting the words out is quite painful and the prince feels the cough that been plaguing him tickling the insides of his sore throat. “I will repay you when I am able.”

“You are a welcomed guest,” Éomer reminds him. “And a recuperating one at that.” He is about to smile when the prince’s forearm catches his eye. The king reaches towards James’ outstretched arm and inspects it. “Tis a curious marking.”

He is confused until the prince catches a glimpse of the tattooed hourglass, still golden against his skin. Now that there is better light, James sees that there are twelve spheres gathered at the top; each indicating the time that the witch has allotted him to break the curse. “Indeed,” he replies darkly.

“Does it mean something in your land?”

James shakes his head. “Nothing of importance.”

 

* * *

 

Our charming prince can’t say that he’s felt this downright dreadful as his mother and his steward took every precaution to keep him from harm’s way. 

While other princes learned to joust, fence, and hunt; James and his brother only read about it until the former was caught taking secret lessons from a knight. Only then did their mother relent and he ended up with a black eye.

It’s the safe to say that one bruised orbital socket is not on par with being shipwrecked. In fact, dear reader, it’s nowhere close and even our prince realizes this. He resigns himself to bed rest and the attentions of the ladies Dwareclya and Éowyn, who nurse him back to health. Éomer comes when he is able; mostly to check in on his progress and to chat briefly before his duties pull him away.

James tries to be a good patient for the first two weeks, which also happens to be when he’s too weak to do much of anything. His fever fluctuates between those days, reaching the highest peaks and the lowest lows until one evening it breaks and James is bathed to wash away the sweat his body produces.

When he sees his body for the first time since washing ashore, James blanches at his injuries. “I look like I’ve gone several rounds with a giant or an ogre!” James exclaims as he sits in the tub.

“What did you expect?” Éowyn chuckles as she rubs a piece of flannel over his back. “To look perfect and untouched by your misadventure?”

James nods. “In fact, _yes_! Yes I did!” he grumbles, his eyes roaming over cuts, bruises, and his broken arm that rests on the edge of the tub. The hourglass tattoo is still etched into his forearm, glittering against his fair skin and taunting him. “Or at least, I hoped.”

“Hope is a fickle mistress,” Éowyn tells him gently, though it’s clear she’s amused. She smiles down at James when he turns to scowl at her.

He arches a brow. “And what about you, my lady?” the prince flirts. “Are you just as fickle?”

“You are wasting your attentions on me, foundling prince,” Éowyn laughs as she continues to bathe him. “I am already wed.”

The prince tilts his head thoughtfully and smiles as charmingly as he can muster. “What does that matter?”

“It matters _plenty_ ,” Éowyn retorts, rubbing especially hard against James’ shoulder. It results in a yelp of pain and the lady’s satisfaction. “What entanglements did you find yourself before arriving to our shores, my lord?”

The manner of which Éowyn inquires leaves James on guard through the rest of his bath. He is used to his behavior being accepted, even celebrated. He is the prince charming; Prince James whose smile and dashing good looks make the ladies swoon and indulge him. Perhaps Éowyn is just immune to him and his silent fretting is for naught.

James’ eyes travel to the hourglass and he scowls, remembering the witch’s curse. He had thought it a hallucination brought on by the trauma of the shipwreck, but now that he’s awake, the prince knows better.

“I am surprised that you have no damsel awaiting your return,” Éowyn says as she stands up to retrieve a piece of flannel meant to dry him.

He shrugs. “I had a wife for a short time,” the prince replies.

“My condolences,” the lady tells him on her approach towards the tub.

James shakes his head. “None needed for she is still alive and well,” he says with a smile. “Our union did not last beyond the first day.”

“You are a peculiar one,” Éowyn comments as she helps James to his feet and pats his skin dry before fastening the flannel around his waist. His nudity does not seem to faze her, something he suspects has to do with the fact that Éowyn probably saw him unclothed while he was unconscious.

He arches a brow. “Truly?”

“Aye. Has anyone not told you so?”

James recalls the witch and decides that her opinion ceased to matter when she cursed him. “Not that I can recall,” he admits.

“Peculiar _and_ full of airs,” Éowyn teases. She helps him out of the tub, allowing James to hold onto her arm until his feet are firmly on the wooden floor.

He sits quietly as the lady rebinds his ribs and checks his broken arm for signs of wetness. By the time James is dressed in a pair of freshly pressed small clothes, he is exhausted and feeling unusually despondent. Lost in thought, the prince doesn’t hear the door to the washroom open and shut.

“Brother,” Éowyn greets warmly upon Éomer’s arrival.

It shakes the reverie that James is wallowing in and he glances up to see the king watching him. Éomer nods in greeting and wrinkles his nose at the heat and humidity of the room. “Wynnie, are you trying to kill him now that he’s well?” Éomer jests. “Perhaps you should open a window!”

“Perhaps you should make yourself useful, Mer, and help your founding prince back to his bed,” Éowyn snaps back. She throws the used piece of flannel at her brother with a smirk. “Just because you are king does not mean you escape my wrath!”

Éomer rolls his eyes. “Your wrath,” he snorts. “Tell that to your husband, Faramir. He may think it incurs more often than I.  Are you ready to leave for your quarters?” He looks at James once more, his dark eyes staring the prince’s face for an answer.  He nods and Éomer is at his side, easing James’ good arm over his shoulders.

“Take care with him, Mer!’ Éowyn chastises as they make haste to leave. “His fever may be broken, but his body is weak and does not need your impatience.”

The king mutters incoherently under his breath, though he listens to his sister’s instructions. James does tire quickly and that cough still plagues the prince, causing him to lose his breath and choke on the mucus in his lungs. Between trying not to earn Éowyn’s wrath and James’ tired body, it takes them a fair amount of time to return to the prince’s room.

One of the servants have changed his bedclothes, which have been pulled back to accommodate the prince upon his return, and there is a fresh jug of water by his bedside. The lanterns are burning low so that James may rest and he is thankful for that.

“You must be pleased that your fever is no more,” Éomer says as he assists James onto the mattress. He is quite gentle for being a warrior king and handles James with the utmost care.

The prince shrugs. “I will be far more pleased once I am completely well,” he grouses as Éomer grabs two pillows and slides them behind his back. It is easier for him to sleep mostly upright and less taxing on his still mending ribs. “Your sister and the lady healer are to be commended with their treatment. Truly.”

“If I tell her, it will be the bane of my existence,” Éomer laughs. “You ought to know how siblings are; fierce in their loyalty _and_ disobedience.”

James smiles, thinking of his brother. “Yes,” he agrees as the king pulls the linens up to his chest. “They can be and more.”

“Do you miss him?” Éomer inquires. “Your brother?”

“I do, though I suspect he’s too enamored with his bride to pay mind to much else,” James answers with a rueful smile. He leans back and sighs with relief. “Samuel is not the sort to multi-task.”

This reply does not seem to sit well with Éomer, who frowns. “You speak as if your family has little regard for you.”

“They have little regard for much,” he says quietly. “I take no offense to it.”

“You ought to, foundling prince,” Éomer argues, though his tone is gentle. He takes a seat usually occupied by his sister or Dwareclya, his eyes trained on James. “We do not know each other well, but from what I have seen of you, you are a good man.”

The prince smiles thoughtfully. “You have misjudged me then, your majesty,” he says.

“Perhaps it is you who has misjudged,” the king tells him.

James shrugs, thinking back to his humiliating encounter with Éowyn. “Perhaps,” he echoes as Dwareclya comes into the room with a tray in her hands.

“Your majesty,” she says to Éomer before turning to James with a smile. “Foundling prince. Éowyn says you fare better this eve.” Dwareclya goes round to the other side of the bed and starts checking him over with sure hands.

Éomer watches all of this from a corner, having moved when the healer needed to squeeze in. His gaze makes James feel…strange; word cannot describe the emotion that courses through him. It’s just as well because the healer blocks his way to feed him bitter-tasting medicine and when she moves, Éomer is gone.

 

* * *

 

Prince James remains bedridden for an entire month before Dwareclya is satisfied with his progress. 

Bruises have faded and cuts are just a figment of memory, save for the one on the prince’s flank which is now a scar. His arm is still broken and it annoys James to no end. He must wear a sling fashioned out of dark fabric that hugs the damaged limb to his body. It throws him off balance, resulting in the prince being clumsier than normal. Whatever grace he possessed prior to his mishap, it’s temporarily gone and he feels like a newborn foal.

“Tis only for a short time,” Dwareclya assures him with a dimpled smile.

James grumbles and pouts in reply. He wonders what his brother and their mother would think of him if they were to see him now. They’d laugh and jest at his expense more likely than not, as their family is wont to do.

Stranger yet, he finds that he doesn’t miss them or his kingdom. James enjoys the ways of the folk of Rohan and the anonymity his unexpected visit affords him. Here he is not Prince Charming, but just James or the Sea Prince.

And even rarer Éomer’s Foundling Prince, which makes his cheeks flush.

Today he is outside, breathing in fresh air that smells of blooming vegetation as he sits in the garden behind Éomer’s home. It is not a castle, but a structure that reminds James of the summer palace that his mother used to take him and Samuel to in the warmer months.

The garden is lovely and is apparently tended by Lord Faramir, who is something of a botanist as well as Éowyn’s husband. Flowers are in bloom, creating a colorful sea of life before the prince’s eyes, and the stone pathways are clear of debris. James is not allowed to do much, so he sits outside when he isn’t reading or picking at his cast.

At the current time, dear reader, he is frowning at the hourglass tattoo as one of the silver balls rolls from the top to the bottom. One month already wasted and eleven more to find his true love. It was plenty of time, yet James felt morose about his curse.

“Éowyn said I would find you out here,” Éomer’s says, stepping from behind a trimmed hedge. He is dressed more casually than the other times that James has seen him, usually in his official garb or chainmail.

James nods, casting one last glance at his forearm. “I’m just keeping out of the way,” he explains as Éomer approaches.

“It does become a bit much,” the king observes as he sits alongside his guest. “Even I, who have no injury, feel like running away sometimes. Just to seek some quiet.”

The prince arches his brow. “But you’re the king.”

“I am also a man,” Éomer counters. “Being king is just a title, a duty. It does not define the whole of me.” He casts a sidelong glance at James and smirks. “It is the same for your nomenclature. You may be a prince by birth, but there is more to you.”

“Not by much, I’m afraid,” James replies. He sighs as he breaks eye contact with Éomer. “My mother only allowed my brother and I do so much; anything that was befitting a royal. In retrospect it has brought me a good deal of agony rather than happiness.”

Éomer scowls. “What of your father? Surely he had a say in how you were raised.”

“If only the dead spoke,” the prince says quietly, though he is sure that the king has heard him. They sit in silence for a while, long before a warm hand is pressed against James’ back. He looks up to see that Éomer is rising to his feet.

“Come,” says the king. “There is something I wish I show you. Perhaps it will ease your melancholy.”

James is about to refute Éomer’s claim when he realizes that perhaps the king is right. He stands up slowly without his host’s help and brushes a lock of hair out of his eyes. Much to his annoyance, both Dwareclya and Éowyn insisted he trim it as he looked like a proud peacock with that mess of locks.  It’s several inches shorter than he’s used to, but James admits it’s a lot easier to manage with one arm. “Let us see what this something is, shall we?”

They leave Éomer’s dwelling and walk out to the streets of the Riddermark. It’s fairly busy out and the king’s subjects greet him with smiles and nods of their heads before going back to their business. A few stare at James, curious about this new addition to their quiet village.

“Some say you are the incarnation of the sea god, Ægir,” Éomer tells him. He looks amused at the rumor, judging by his grinning mouth and the creases at the corner of his eyes.  “Swept upon our shores to bless us for coming to your aid.”

The prince smirks. “I’m just a man,” he replies. “I cannot bless your people more than you can magically heal my bones.”

“I broke my leg as a boy,” Éomer says. “It seemed like forever until it healed.”

It’s hard to imagine the king as a boy. “What were you doing when you broke it?” James asks, instantly curious about his host.

“Fetching apples for my sister,” he explains as they walk. “Wynnie had a way of getting what she wanted and I was one to indulge her especially after our parents passed. My cousin, Théodred, and I went to Gríma Wormtongue’s orchard, where I climbed the ripest tree and began tossing them down to Théo. It was my rotten luck that there was a beehive near a branch I was shaking and when the bees came out, I jumped.”

James laughs. “Perhaps you should have picked a better tree?”

“Mayhap,” Éomer agrees with a smile. They come to a gate that the king pushes open, allowing James to precede him.  “I was laid up in my bed for weeks, but Théo and Wynnie kept me company when they could. Tis a mercy to have them as family.”

James finds himself in a cove with a cobblestone pathway that leads to an open-aired temple made of marble. Through the columns, he can see a tomb made of the same materials.  It is fairly plain, unlike the grandiose one where his own father lies, though the workmanship is quite lovely. “Where are we?”

“This place was constructed after my uncle and cousin’s deaths in the War of the Ring,” Éomer tells him as he moves ahead of the prince. “Tis a place of remembrance and solitude for those who need it.”

James wanders around the perimeter of the temple, his eyes focused on taking in his surroundings. It’s oddly quiet within the gates, as if magic is keeping all other noises out. He glances down at his forearm, the tattoo hidden by his sleeves, and shivers at the thought.

“Are you alright?” the king asks.

The prince nods slowly. “It’s been quite a while since I’ve been able to take a stroll,” James tells Éomer. “My body is reacquainting itself with such exercise.”

“Ah,” the older man replies in understanding. “I must admit that my sister and Healer Dwareclya are formable when it comes to the art of medicine.”

James smiles at this. “They are quite talented,” he agrees. “I am lucky to have washed up upon your shores.” He notices Éomer looking at him strangely; his expression nearly unreadable save for the glint in his eyes. “What is it?”

They are standing right next to each other, close to enough to bump shoulders when they move and yet neither of them bulge an inch. For a moment, James wonders if he’s somehow offended Éomer or that the king remembers him from an officer’s tale of some prince seducing his wife, betrothed or other. He watches the older man lick his lips, slow and deliberate, and doesn’t realize that Éomer has grabbed his shoulders until their mouths are pressed together.

The prince’s eyes widen, mostly out of surprise if anything, and he gasps into Éomer’s parted lips.  It’s tentative, lacking all the finesse James brings to the table when he’s wooing maidens. The tips of their noses rub together when Éomer changes the angle and brushes his tongue against James’ lower lip. The prince closes his eyes and gives in, allowing the king’s tongue into his mouth.

Éomer tastes of spring; warm, new, and blooming. His dirty blonde beard tickles James’ freshly shaven skin and presses urgently against the prince’s chin as one of the king’s hands runs up his shoulder to the back of the his head. He pulls the younger man closer a bit too quickly, causing James to stumble against Éomer and their front teeth to bump against each other.

“Sorry about that,” James apologizes after he’s run his tongue over his teeth. Éomer’s hands are still on his person; a warm and comforting presence.

The king nods. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, dropping his hands to his sides. “I should have inquired if you would be amenable to being kissed.”

“Perhaps we should try again?” the prince suggests with a grin.

Éomer returns it with one of his own as he reaches for James. “Perhaps we should.”

 

* * *

 

Dear reader, as you would suspect, our two protagonists stayed at the temple for quite some time. 

Eventually they ventured back to Éomer’s dwelling, where James and the king appeared in a various states of disarray. Their lips are bruised and swollen and there is a love bite sucked tenderly into the prince’s neck, just above his collar.

Éowyn smirks and rolls her eyes as the two of them enter the dining hall. She is sitting alongside her husband, Faramir, who is in a deep discussion of medicinal properties of plants with Dwareclya. “You’re just in time for dinner,” Éowyn comments as James and Éomer approach the table. “I suspect you both must be _ravenous_.”

James turns a violent shade of pink while Éomer scowls at his sister. Unimpressed, Éowyn goes back to her dinner with a knowing smile.

“Say where did the two of you wander off to?” Faramir asks.

“I showed James the temple,” Éomer replies as he scoops vegetables onto his plate. He reaches for the plate of meats and shrugs. “I thought the fresh air and change of scenery would do him some good.”

Éowyn giggles. “It has certainly brought a flush to his cheeks,” she teases, despite the deepening glare on her brother’s face.

“Foundling Prince, are you well?” Dwareclya asks out of concern.

James is placing a healthy portion of food on his plate and stares at her with a slack jaw before he finally nods. “I am,” he tells her. The healer gives him a skeptical look, then returns to her meal. The prince sighs with relief.

“What did you think of the temple?” Faramir inquires. “It’s quite exquisite, is it not?”

Thus begins a discussion on the Rohan style of architecture versus the kind found in James’ kingdom. He welcomes the change of subject and is thankful that no one else (besides Éowyn) has noticed the bruise on his neck that suspiciously looks like Éomer’s mouth.

Faramir speaks of the columns of the temple and their design. “They have a sturdy build,” he says as he cuts his meat. “Tis one of the Elven designs from Rivendell.”

“Hmm,” James mumbles in reply as Faramir continues on about the structure and how the base makes it possible for the temple to stand.

It would all sound interesting under normal circumstances, but all the prince can think about is how Éomer pressed him up against said column and kissed him until James could only taste the king’s tongue on his palate.

“Faramir, my dearest heart,” Éowyn coos as she lays a delicate hand over her husband’s. “Éomer’s Founding Prince has other things on his mind.”

James flushes once more and shoves food into his mouth before he can be questioned further. Éomer has done the same and they are shooting identical glares in Lady Éowyn’s direction. Sadly it does nothing to dissuade her or Dwareclya, who’s now on the same page as Éowyn, from chuckling.

At least it doesn’t keep Éomer from finding James in his quarters as he’s getting ready for bed. It’s quite late and everyone else is already asleep, so when the king knocks at his door, it’s safe to say that our prince is surprised.  _Especially_ when Éomer comes charging in like he was on horseback and kisses James until he’s lightheaded and weak in the knees. They barely have time to close and lock the door before the king starts leading his guest by his small clothes covered hips towards the turned down the bed.

“I thought I was going to have to gnaw off my arm to keep myself from murdering Wynnie during dinner,” Éomer murmurs as he nips at James’ chin. “And her damned snickering!”

The prince clutches at the older man’s shirt with his good arm and squeezes the fabric. “It seems no one else noticed,” he practically groans when Éomer’s tongue starts laving a spot on his neck. “Unless you count Dwareclya.”

When the back of his knees bump against the edge of the mattress, Éomer cradles James’ waist close to his body. “No,” the king intones as his fingers dig into the younger man’s skin. He scrapes his teeth against James’ neck. “I do not.”

“Thank goodness for small favors,” James murmurs against Éomer’s lips that have found his own once again.

For all his brute force, Éomer is surprisingly gentle as he lays James on the bed and starts unlacing his small clothes. It’s painstakingly slow just like the way their tongues move against each other.

As his fingers come to the last tie, the king stops. “It is safe to assume you’ve lain with a man before,” he comments, looking James in the eye.

“Once or twice,” the prince replies. He cocks his head and smirks. “Though the roles were a bit reversed in those situations.”

Éomer rolls his eyes as his fingers go back to their previous task. “Well,” he says as he slips his hand into James’ small clothes and grasps his half-hard cock. Éomer grins when the prince gasps and arches against him. “Tis good to try new things.”

The prince is inclined to agree with his host, especially when Éomer starts nipping and licking down his body as the king rolls his small clothes over his hips. Éomer removes the flimsy garment from James’ body and dropped onto the floor just as Éomer’s tongue teases his navel.

“I must admit,” James rasps as he buries his fingers into the king’s wheat colored hair, “that you pay more attention to seduction than other men.”

Éomer glances up from between the prince’s thighs and quirks a brow. “Were your previous romps a quick tussle without exchanging names?” he teases as he strokes James’ cock, making the organ quickly grow to full hardness. The king chuckles when the younger man groans and goes to lick his cockhead.

“You could say that,” James struggles to blurt out. He tugs on Éomer’s hair and whines as the king’s tongue trails up his shaft, towards the underside of his head. He jerks his hips when Éomer teases the gland with slow, barely there licks. “Oh Éomer…”

The older man chuckles, sending pleasant vibrations straight to the prince’s groin. His hands move to James’ hips and pin him to the bed just as Éomer swallows down his cock.  The tightness of the king’s mouth, paired with the perfect amount of suction leaves James speechless as he surrenders himself over to Éomer’s ministrations. His jaw falls open as the older man’s mouth bobs up and down his shaft, driving James close to the edge.

One of Éomer’s hands releases his hip and brushes over his skin to James’ inner thigh. The prince gnaws on his lower lip as fingers skirt over his testes, stroking each sack before venturing further.

“I hope you aren’t going to take me on just spit and desire,” the prince quips as one of Éomer’s fingers rubs over his opening. He cries out in protest as the king’s mouth lifts off his cock.

Éomer nips at his inner thigh. “Shh, founding prince,” he whispers against James’ skin. His free hand is rummaging around for something as the younger man can feel it moving. “It would be a shame for your cries to wake the household.”

“Which _you_ are the cause of,” James protests. He hears a pop from a bottle being uncapped, then the item being set down on the ground.

The king hums in agreement as he hikes one of the prince’s legs over his broad shoulder. “This is true,” he says as slick fingers find their way back to James’ nether region.

“You needn’t sound so smug,” the prince starts to grouse. He chokes on his words when the tip of Éomer’s finger sinks into his passage. James’ head drops back onto the mattress and he groans quietly, minding the king’s warning.

Éomer takes his time with opening the prince up and pays close attention to his reactions as he’s unaccustomed to the stretch of fingers inside of him. James notes that each gasp and moan seem to mean something to the king.

One finger becomes two. A burning frantically grows inside of him when two becomes three. James shudders and balls the coverlet in his fist while his erection sits hotly on his hip, leaking fluid. “This will be an arrangement of our mutual benefit,” he chokes out.

Éomer’s candlelit face peers up at him and nods, shadows rolling across his features. “I agree,” he says, removing his fingers from James’ loose and slick hole. He reaches for something out of the prince’s sight and sets a small vial down on the bed. Éomer leers down at James as he unbuttons his shirt and lifts it over his head, revealing golden skin and hard muscles.

On the tops of his shoulders are black lines and dots that blend into an intricate design. It’s a strangely primal tattoo and somewhat graceful as the king’s movements as his hands go to remove his breeches. The rest of Éomer’s body is admittedly pleasing to look upon; he’s unsurprisingly strong and has a well-endowed cock those tip brushes against his abdomen.

He picks up the vial and opens it to pour clear liquid into the palm of his hand. James watches as Éomer closes the object and uses his hand on his own erection, making the king’s ruddy cock slick. It glistens from the low light of the room, especially when Éomer crawls onto the mattress.

James feels the heated press of lips on his skin, from his scarred flank to his shoulder. He goes to say something when Éomer captures his mouth with his own, swallowing the prince’s words with his tongue.

The kiss is brief, for the king has other ideas. “Lay on your side,” he whispers into the younger man’s ear, causing him to shudder in anticipation.

They rearrange themselves so that Éomer’s chest touches James’ back. The older man’s cock brushes against the prince’s ass, hard and insistent. The king takes himself in hand to position himself between James’ cheeks.

“I’m not made of glass,” the prince assures quietly as Éomer’s cock pushes against his hole. He turns his head to look over his shoulder at the older man, who licks his lips.

“Aye,” Éomer agrees, planting quick pecks along James’ shoulder. He eases his cock inside of the younger man at a snail’s pace, causing both of them to keen. “You’re made of flesh and bone.”

By the time the king is fully seated inside of him, James is dizzy with arousal and goes to say as much when he finds his lips claimed by Éomer once more. They kiss lazily while the prince adjusts to the sensation of being filled. The king’s arm wraps itself around his waist before sliding down James’ body.

Éomer lifts the prince’s leg up towards his chest and holds it there as he starts to thrust into him. The change of angle is James’ undoing. He can feel the king’s cock dragging over his prostate with each movement, giving the gland the sweetest beating. The sensations go straight to his weeping erection and expand throughout his body.

It’s a mercy that Éomer’s lips are covering his own. James presses harder, trying to devour the sweetness of the king’s mouth as well as keep his cries muffled. The older man chuckles knowingly and continues his relentless torture of his guest.

The bed creaks under their movements and the room is growing warmer. James digs the fingers of his injured arm into Éomer’s skin; part warning and part plea. It seems that the king senses the prince’s desperation for release and lowers his leg so that he can take James in hand.

As soon as he feels Éomer’s hand wrapped around his length, the prince’s orgasm comes embarrassingly fast. James cries out, the sound stifled by the older man’s mouth, as his seed leaks out in pulses onto his stomach and the king’s fist. His body clenches around Éomer’s moving cock, only heightening the effects of James’ orgasm.

Once Éomer has wrung out the last of the prince’s release, his hips gain momentum until they stutter and the king breaks their kiss to moan into James’ shoulder. His hand grabs onto the younger man’s body, using him as means to an end, and fills up his lover’s still quivering passage with his own climax.

James falls limp onto the mattress, perspiring and trying to catch his breath. He can feel Éomer's trembling lessen as the aftershocks dissipate. The king loosens his hold on the prince as Éomer removes his softening cock from his hole and collapses next to him.

“For someone who’s usually in reserved roles, you take it quite well,” Éomer whispers into the prince’s shoulder. He kisses the sticky and warm skin, dragging his teeth along it for his own amusement.

“Perhaps it’s because you know what you’re doing,” James replies with a satisfied grin. He turns so that he’s lying on his back and able to view Éomer’s face more easily. He spies a lock of hair that is plastered to the king’s damp cheek and goes to remove it. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Éomer chuckles and goes to lean over him. “I’ll try as much,” he tells the prince before joining their lips together.

 

* * *

 

So begins a very ill-advised arrangement between Prince James and King Éomer. 

Anyone with a lick of common sense would know that this was a terrible idea; beyond terrible! Alas, our protagonists are stubborn fellows and refuse to see reason even if it’s staring them directly in the face.

It goes to say that they meet in James’ bed chambers once everyone has retired for the evening, where they give into attraction and carnal delights until the candles flicker out and there’s only the sound of their unsteady breathing in the darkness.

Éomer always leaves before first light and the prince wakes up in his bed alone with only the king’s head impression and fading scent on his pillow. It doesn’t bother James, as he’s done the same thing in his previous dalliances and it’s fair to say that he expects the same behavior from his lover.

“You are deep in thought,” Dwareclya comments as she finishes cutting the cast from James’ arm.

He gawks at her with both brows raised in question. “Hmm?” the prince mumbles.

“Nothing, foundling prince,” the healer laughs as she continues her work. She shakes her head and starts to peel away the layers of the cast, slowly revealing James’ arm.

He is content to watch his skin appear. There is some discoloration which Dwareclya assures is expected, but it appears that the bone has healed properly. “What does this mean?” James asks as the healer fetches a damp piece of flannel to wash his arm.

“It means that you are fully recovered,” she replies with a grin. Dwareclya starts to wipe his skin, clearing away dead skin and leftover debris from the cast. “If you so desire, you are able to join the king on his daily rides.”

James flushes at the remark and fidgets uncomfortably. “Perhaps I can assist Lord Faramir in the gardens now that I am healed.”

“If that is your wish,” Dwareclya tells him. She offers him a sweet smile before going back to taking care of his arm.

In truth, he has no idea what he wishes for. James has been in the Riddermark for a little more than three months and it’s felt more like home than his own kingdom. He doesn’t fret over his brother and his bride or flinch because the steward is chastising him over something. The prince reckons it’s the first time he’s been able to relax since he was a small child and he savors it. Éomer’s household are welcoming and enjoy their guest’s presence amongst them, especially now that he is well.

Then there are the times when he’s alone with the king, both of them naked and tangled in bed sheets while the rest of the house slumbers. James feels unusually carefree in Éomer’s company and looks forward to when his lover discreetly slips into his room.

The sound of a shutting door rouses the prince out of his thoughts. He glances up to see Éomer standing near the threshold and flashes him a smile, which is returned.

“How does he fare?” the king asks as he steps forward to survey Dwareclya’s work.

The healer is rubbing ointment over James’ skin, massaging it into his skin and bringing circulation back into the limb. “He fares well,” she replies, grinning at the prince. “His bones have mended.”

“Ah, so you are free of the cast and sling?” Éomer teases. He laughs at the scowl he receives from James and cocks his head. “Come now, foundling prince, this means I can take you to see more of my land.”

James nods. “I would like that,” he says as Dwareclya rises from her seat and collects her things. She leaves behind a jar that contains an ointment that the healer explained would help with the discoloration. He stands and starts to roll down his sleeve. “From what little I’ve seen of Rohan, it is quite beautiful.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Éomer replies. “It just so happens that I’ve asked the lads in the stables to saddle up Firefoot and Visola. We can leave when you are ready.”

The healer exits the room, making sure to shut the door behind her. As soon as it clicks, James pulls Éomer to him and presses his lips against the king’s. He parts his lips for his lover’s tongue and brushes his own against it, groaning in delight.

“If we continue this, the horses will be saddled for naught,” Éomer whispers between kisses.

James shrugs as he nips at the king’s mouth. “They’ll understand,” he reasons, pulling the older man closer so that their bodies are slotted together.

“Be patient,” Éomer insists, his voice gentle as he places a hand between them. He thumbs James’ nose and leans in to whisper. “And you will be pleasantly surprised.”

So they venture out on the horses, riding through the lush greenery and rolling mountains that make up Rohan. It’s a warm afternoon and the trails are quiet, as if Éomer ordered people to keep away. James is sure that the king would not use his power to do such a thing (though the same could not be said for his brother or himself).

He and Éomer talk about the latter’s childhood in this beautiful land and pointing out landmarks as they pass them. James teases him when they pass the very orchard the king spoke of while the prince was convalescing.

“Not all of us can boast that we broke our bones during a shipwreck,” Éomer grumbles.

James shrugs. “I’m not sure if there is anything to boast about,” he tells the king. “It was a bit of bad luck.”

“What you consider to be bad luck has been good for me,” the older man replies with a smirk.

They end up naked in a grove, where Éomer lays out a blanket for them to use. The horses graze nearby while the two men rut against each other, enjoying the opportunity to make noise and see each other’s bodies in daylight.

James muses that Éomer looks far less fearsome in the sun, especially with his freckled shoulders and back and the Rohan warrior markings etched into his skin. “Did these hurt?” he asks afterwards when they are lying next to each other and he’s tracing his fingers over them.

“Not too terribly,” Éomer answers. He is braiding three blades of grass together while he rests on his stomach. “I suspect it hurt as much as your hourglass.” He turns his head, his eyes catching in the sun and becoming impossibly green.

The prince glances down at his forearm and sees the tattoo with now two silver balls resting at its base. A third ball is lying in wait for the month to be up. “You would be surprised,” James murmurs before brushing his lips against Éomer’s sun warmed skin. He tastes the tang of salt, which he chases with his tongue.

“You seem to be under the impression that I regain my energy quickly,” Éomer growls, swatting the prince with blades of grass. James nibbles on his shoulder, trying to hide his laughter and goes to pinch the king’s side when Éomer grabs him. “Or that you possess more stealth than I.”

James finds himself on his back with his wrists held in one of the king’s hands. The grip is deliciously unforgiving and he groans despite himself, bowing against Éomer’s body as his eyelids flutter shut.

“Interesting,” the king says when James opens his eyes. There is a smile on his face as he leans down to kiss the prince. “I shall make riding back to the Riddermark a most unpleasant exercise.”

It’s safe to say that Éomer keeps his promise and then some.

 

* * *

 

They come back to the Riddermark just as the light fades from the sky and gives way to night.

The stable boy takes the reins of Firefoot and Visola before bidding his master and the prince a good evening. After a quick wash of their faces and hands, Éomer and James join the others for dinner. Éowyn and Dwareclya do not tease them this evening and ask the prince what he thought of the countryside. The conversation is light-hearted all throughout their meal. James glances at Éomer at certain times and finds that his stomach constricts at the sight of the king laughing into his cup of mead.

He starts to notice little nuances, like how dimples appear when his lover smiles or chuckles at something his sister has said. Or how the king’s eyes are more green than brown and even a bit blue if the light is just so.  
  
James feels his heart flutter uncomfortably in his chest and sets his fork down to reach for his glass of water. Thankfully the action goes unnoticed by everyone at the table and he goes back to his bed chambers to prepare for a bath once dinner has concluded. The prince decides that his ride and other activities with Éomer have made him tired. _I’ll retire early this evening,_ he thinks to himself as he opens the door to his chambers. _Surely he must be just as exhausted._

James walks into the room and shuts the door, sighing as he turns around. He looks up out of habit and sees an old crone sitting on his bed, waiting for him with an exasperated look on her aged face. The prince shrugs it off and goes to remove his boots before reality sets in. He stumbles and yells incoherently, grabbing for the dresser to maintain his balance. “You!” he manages to croak.

“Yes it’s me,” she says sarcastically. The witch rolls her eyes and stands up. “It seems you’ve taken my curse for granted. Or you’re more of an idiot than I initially believed.”

“How did you get inside?” James hisses once he’s regained a measure of sense.

The witch tilts her head and frowns. “I cursed you and you’re wondering how I got inside?” she groans. She starts to pace the perimeter near James’ bed. “I’m a witch, you fool! I used magic to find my way into this sad excuse for a castle.”

“It _is not_ a sad excuse… _never mind_!” the prince argues. He charges up to her and points a finger. “I should slay you for what you’ve done to me!”

She starts cackling at his threat, nearly collapsing from her reaction. The witch cradles her midsection as tears run down her cheeks until she thrusts out her finger and mutters an enchantment that sends James into the nearest chair. “Do not threaten me, you insolent little brat,” she snarls, eyes flashing murderously. “I could turn you into a cockroach just as easily as I could squash you!”

James clutches the armrests of the chair and keeps his mouth shut as his heart pounds against his chest. He watches as the old crone continues to stare at him. “What will you?” he asks quietly.

“What will I?” the witch mimics cruelly. “The question is, my dear prince, what will you? It seems that you have not taken my curse seriously.”

“I was recovering!” he scoffs. “From the shipwreck _you_ undoubtedly _caused_!”

The witch cackles at him. “I’m glad you think of me being so powerful,” she tells the prince. “I meant the other thing; finding true love and earning their love in return! Instead of finding a way to break the curse and also better yourself as a human being, you are having a casual dalliance with your rescuer!”

“I have nearly _nine months_ left to find my true love!” James points out. “And you were not specific on when my quest had to begin; only that you cursed me!”

The witch seethes with rage and goes to say a retort when she stops, grumbling incoherently as she turns around. After a while she looks at James and hobbles over to him, leaning in so close that it’s uncomfortable for the prince. “You are correct,” she says. “Yet you do not heed my curse with as much care as one in your position should. Why is that?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” the prince starts to say.

“Silence!” the witch bellows, causing the young man’s mouth to shut with an audible click. She reaches out to run a long fingernail over James’ cheek while she searches his face with dark eyes. They remind him of the night sky during the storm that left him shipwrecked. “Unless there is something stopping you…”

“There is nothing stopping me,” James insists. He recoils at her touch and sinks back into the chair.

The witch’s face breaks into a smile and she inches away from him, slowly. “There is,” she says in a firm tone. “Perhaps what you are meant to seek has been found, my sweet prince.”

As James is about to refute her claim, there is a knock on his door. Both of them look towards the source of the noise when they hear Éomer’s voice. “Foundling prince?” the king asks. “I came to inquire if you are in need of a bath to be drawn.”

“I’ll be back,” the witch hisses before disappearing in a cloud of blue smoke, leaving James somewhat stunned.

Éomer thumps on the door. “James?”

“Sorry,” the prince calls as he rises from the chair, unsure of his movements. He goes to the door and opens it to find his host standing in the hallway. “I think I might have dozed off.”

The king grins as he steps inside of the prince’s bedchambers. “Then I have done my duty,” he jests.

“Only part of it,” James reminds him. “I believe I was ahead of you and Firefoot on our ride back.”

Éomer shrugs, reaching for the prince’s waist. “Perhaps we should have another go,” he drawls as he pulls James to him. The king leans in and nuzzles the younger man’s cheek, ensuring that his lips brush against the prince’s jaw. “Unless if you are too sore, foundling prince.”

He sighs into his lover’s attentions and closes his eyes as Éomer’s mouth finds his neck. “I could be persuaded,” James whispers.

“I appreciate having this knowledge,” the king says. He turns the prince's head so that they are looking at each other. Éomer thumbs James’ lower lip, watching it as it sticks to his finger. “You are truly a wonder, James.”

A dull ache forms in the prince’s chest at his lover’s words. Instead of answering, James pulls him into a kiss and continues to do so as they stumble towards his bed.

 

* * *

 

Our prince has not seen the witch since her unannounced visit a week prior.

It’s just as well because he’s in no mood to deal with her temper or puzzling words. James finds his hackles going up at the slightest thing; the wind whistling through the trees, one of the house cats hiding in the brush, a creak of a floorboard.

“Perhaps you should cease my brother’s nightly visits for a day or so,” Éowyn says as she makes a wreath of daisies while they sit outside. She arches a knowing brow and shrugs at James’ cross expression. “You two aren’t as discreet as you may think and I am his sister.”

The prince’s nostrils flare. “And you work in mysterious ways?” he snaps.

“I know him best,” Éowyn replies, ignoring James’ tone. She turns the wreath in her hands before deciding to add more flowers. “Is it not the same with you and your brother?”

James’ relationship with Samuel has never been especially close; they enjoyed each other’s company and there was brotherly love, but he couldn’t confide in him. A large part of the prince envies Éomer and Éowyn and their easy camaraderie. “No,” he eventually answers, shaking his head. “We are not like you and Éomer.”

“Yet you ventured out to find him,” Éowyn states. “Was that not of your own doing?”

“My mother asked me to do it, as she has to attend to our kingdom,” James tells her.

Éowyn studies him for a while, her expression so much like her brother’s when he’s deep in thought, until she goes back to her wreath. “You are a good son and brother,” she says as she holds up the wreath for inspection.

“What about a good man?” James asks as the lady rises to her feet.

She plunks the wreath down on his head and pats his shoulder. “We shall see,” Éowyn teases. Her eyes move from him to that of her husband who has joined them in the gardens.

James watches her go to Faramir and their embrace. It seems that both of them light up in each other’s presence and he once again finds himself jealous. He removes the wreath from his head and sets it down in his lap, where he runs his fingers over the flowers.

The prince realizes that while he has Éomer’s attentions, he doesn’t have much else. Perhaps the promise of pleasure and a warm body to share his bed with, but James finds that it is no longer enough. It does nothing to soothe the near constant ache whenever he wakes up alone and with the king’s fading scent wafting all around him.

He vaguely remembers this morning, where he felt Éomer moving to leave his bed. James had tightened his grip on his lover’s arm, silently pleading for him to stay so that they may wake up together. He recalls Éomer’s chuckle and his lips against the prince’s brow before the younger man let go, allowing the king to leave.

“Thinking about something, my deary?” asks the witch, frightening James so that he knocks the wreath onto the ground.  “Or perhaps _someone_?”

James stammers a reply as he looks towards Éowyn and Faramir. A sharp cry escapes his lips when he realizes that they are frozen in their embrace. “What have you done to them?” he shouts, jumping to his feet. “Fix them!”

“They will be fine,” the witch tells him. “But you, on the other hand, will not be if you continue to dawdle!”

He swallows down his fear of harm coming to the couple and nods. “The last time you surprised me, you said there was something stopping me.”

“Besides yourself, that fellow you share your bed with,” the witch answers as she paces around him, her dark eyes watching James. “The same one who has stolen your heart.”

The prince blinks, pressing his hand to his chest. He feels his heart beating against his palm. “My heart is still here,” he says, confused.

“I don’t mean _literally_ , you fool!” the witch groans, batting at James’ head with her staff and continues to do so as she berates him. “Daft idiot! Are you truly so vain and shallow?”

James manages to avoid a few slaps of the blunt object and is eventually able to grab it before it collides with his face. “Will you stop that?” he shouts, yanking the staff out of her grasp. He holds it away from the witch and uses his free hand to rub his head. “Hitting me with _this stick_ will not give you the answer you seek, madam!”

“This is not a stick! That staff,” the witch says as she tries to grab it back, “belonged to my mother! And her mother before her! Now hand it back!”

The prince shakes his head. “No,” he replies simply, lifting it above his head. “Not until you stop speaking in riddles and tell me what you’re going on about.”

“You do not know love when you see it!” the witch snaps at him. “Hell, you don’t even know yourself to be in the thick of it!”

James drops his arm and the staff falls to the ground in a clatter. He stares at the witch with his jaw agape as she retrieves her possession. “What?” the prince finally manages to say.

“Good heavens, you can be so dense,” she mumbles, brushing a lock of blue hair out of her face. She points her staff and waves it at James. “I’ve seen how you gaze upon him when he looks in your direction, how you brighten up because he noticed you.”

“I do that for everyone,” the prince argues.

The witch brings the staff down upon his foot and glares at him as James yelps in pain. “I’ve also seen the way you look when you realize that he’s no longer in your bed,” she presses on, resulting in the prince paling significantly. “It makes your heart ache to think that he leaves you so easily once he’s had your body.”

“No,” James whispers, surprised that he can even say the words while a lump forms in his throat. “I know that this is a casual dalliance until it is time for me to leave.”

The witch scoffs. “Yet you are still here,” she points out.

He stares at her for a moment or three before breaking eye contact and stumbling towards a bench nearby to sit down. There, James realizes that this witch is far wiser than he cared to admit. He buries his face in his hands and sighs. “He does not love me,” the prince says, muffled.

“Have you asked him?” the witch questions as she sits down beside James. When the young man shakes his head and grins. “Then how can you doubt his feelings for you when you do not know?”

James shrugs. “It’s too easy,” he intones.

“Then I’ll make it hard for you,” the witch offers, grabbing his arm with the hourglass tattoo and tapping it with her staff.  

The prince watches in horror as the remaining silver balls disappear, save for one that now sports numbers in its center to count down the hours James has left to break the curse. “What have you done?” he cries, pulling free of the witch’s grasp to look closer at his arm.

“You said it was too easy,” she says.

“It was a rhetorical comment!” James shouts, his body trembling from rage, fear, and absolute horror. “You are being unfair!”

“I’m a witch! What did you expect? Your wishes to be granted? A magic carpet ride?”

James purses his lips together. “Perhaps a bit of kindness,” he grunts.

The witch shrugs. “Now you have precisely twenty-four hours to break your curse,” she tells him with a toothy grin. “Use it well, my worrisome prince!”

“ _What_?” he bellows as she disappears into a wisp of blue smoke.

“James?” Éowyn questions from across the garden. “Is everything alright?”

The prince glances up to see both Éowyn and Faramir staring at him curiously, still in their embrace. He feels his cheeks burning as he stands up on wobbling legs. “I need to lie down,” he tells them, rushing past his hosts and into the house with the tiniest bit of composure.

 

* * *

 

It’s well after dinner when James hears a knock at his door, startling him from his turmoil filled thoughts.

He looks at the door and knows it’s Éomer before he hears his lover’s voice. “Foundling prince?” the king utters through the door. It creaks open and James catches a glimpse of Éomer’s face peering from around the corner.  He steps inside and shuts the door behind him while looking at the prince with a worried expression. “You weren’t at dinner.”

James nods. “I wasn’t hungry,” he replies quietly.

“You also missed lunch and barely ate anything at breakfast,” Éomer tells him as he approaches James’ bed and kneels in front of him. “Are you well?”

The prince watches his lover take his hands in his own and has to bite the inside of his lip to keep from releasing the sob that’s pressing hard against his throat. “I’m fine,” James croaks, forcing a smile. He can feel his eyes burning, from melancholy or from being tired—he doesn’t know.

“You seem upset,” Éomer says, running his thumb over James’ knuckles. He looks up at the prince all humble and so sweetly that the younger has to avoid his gaze. “Have I done something to offend you?”

James shakes his head. “No.”

“Then what ails you, sea prince?” the king asks. “Are you homesick?”

He scowls immediately. “I would need to miss my home to begin with,” James grouses, earning a grin from his lover. In turn, the prince finds himself returning it and chuckles softly. “I’m just tired, my lord.”

“Ah,” Éomer replies, squeezing James’ fingers before moving to sit next to him on the bed. “Éowyn said as much and chastised me for not allowing you to rest.”

James rolls his eyes, able to picture the lithe Éowyn shaming her older brother. “She said the same thing to me,” he tells the king. “Your sister is very protective.”

“You mean to say intrusive,” Éomer counters, nudging the prince’s shoulder with his own. “Wynnie does not know when to mind her own business.”

“She cares about you,” James insists, nudging the king back.

Éomer reaches for the younger man and cups his chin with one of his large hands. “And what of you, sea prince?” he whispers. “Are you really so tired from my visits?”

Panic surges in James’ body and he ends up trembling from the king’s touch. Éomer raises his brows and his lips form a hard line. For an instant he thinks that his lover is angry with him and the prince’s stomach starts to ache.

“For once my sister was correct,” Éomer says, surveying James’ stricken appearance. “I will have the servants start the water for your bath and bring you something light to eat before you retire.”

James shakes his head in agreement. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Why are you apologizing?” the king asks.

“For…” James hesitates with his answer, unsure of what he’s sorry for. For declining Éomer’s invitation for sex? For his ill mood? For finding himself in love with the king? “…being a nuisance. You shouldn’t have to cater to me; I’m your guest.”

Éomer laughs and leans in to kiss the prince. “All the more reason,” he whispers against James’ mouth before pressing their lips together once again.

The prince falls into it, wrapping his arms around his lover’s waist and pulling him close. He breaks the kiss to draw a breath and buries his face into Éomer’s shoulder. “I don’t want to sleep alone tonight,” he intones, sounding awfully desperate to his own ears.

“Come to my room after your meal and bath,” the king says into his hair. They pull back to gaze upon each other. “I have some business I must attend to, but it should be concluded by the time you are done.”

James nods and manages to bite his tongue about going to Éomer’s chambers, somewhere he’s only seen in passing. Ever since their dalliance began they’ve kept mostly to the prince’s room or anywhere they could afford privacy, but never the king’s chambers. “All right,” he replies.

“Then I shall see you soon, foundling prince,” Éomer tells him with a smile. He leans forward to kiss James’ brow while he strokes the prince’s hair.

They separate for only an hour and by the time James finds himself in Éomer’s chambers, he feels less frantic. The windows are open, as it’s a warm spring night, and the prince can smell flowers on the breeze that blows into the room.

Éomer comes out of what James assumes is a bath chamber, wiping his face on a piece of flannel. He is wearing small clothes, leaving his upper half bare, and a smile that makes the younger man’s heart skip. The king removes the robe that the prince is wearing and sets it down on a chair before leading him to bed.

There they lie next to each other; James curled into Éomer’s side, who holds him close. The prince keeps his eyes on the moon that spills silvery light into the room and coats the king’s skin. It washes out the freckles and markings on his shoulders and he finds himself trailing a finger over them to ensure they still exist.

“You are thinking too loudly, foundling prince,” Éomer murmurs. His lips brush against James’ temple. “Rest now; I’ll see you in dreams.”

James closes his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Spending the night in the king’s quarters has been restful and gives James the rare opportunity to stare at his lover while he sleeps. 

He traces over Éomer’s features with soft touches until the king moves, blinking his eyes open and smiles at him. Then they make love, or at least the closest to it that either of them have come. James clings to Éomer as they move against each other, tangling his fingers in the king’s hair and digging his nails into his back. His lover whispers words of a foreign tongue into the prince’s neck as his hips surge and retreat.

Their climax overwhelms James and he realizes that he must tell Éomer of his feelings as tears prick his eyes.

Both of them fall into a doze, as the sun has yet to rise, and when it’s time for the king to get dressed, he kisses James to a half-awake state.

“I must go,” Éomer tells him, his voice still thick with sleep. One of his hands is stroking several locks of hair off of the prince’s forehead. “The cavalry has drills this morning.”

James nods and burrows deeper into the pillow under his head. “When will you be back?” he mumbles.

“The afternoon, I suspect,” the king replies. “Why? Do you plan on disappearing, foundling prince?”

He opens one of his eyes and shakes his head. “I’ll await your return,” James says, to which Éomer kisses him goodbye.

Now, the prince sits anxiously in the gardens where he is rehearsing what he will say to the king. James knows that he’s proclaimed his love far too easily in the past and this is harder than he’s reckoned. The words—the right ones, at least—are stuck somewhere between his mind and his mouth and everything is coming out horribly.

“Perhaps you should just wing it, your highness,” the witch suggests out of nowhere. When the prince turns his head, he finds her standing under the shade of an apple tree.

James scowls. “Perhaps you should mind your own business,” he snaps.

“Aren’t we touchy today?” The witch reaches for an apple and plucks it from its branch. She brushes it against her clothing before taking a hearty bite. “If you force the words, they will not come so readily.”

“So I’ve noticed,” the prince grouses. His eyes shift to the hourglass on his forearm and groans in frustration. “Why are you here? To mock me?”

The witch, who is in the middle of chewing, shakes her head. “No, my pleasant young man, I am here to simply check in on your progress,” she answers oh so sweetly. She looks James over and smiles. “It is nearly four.”

“I know,” James says softly. He traces the hourglass with his finger, absently wondering what will become of the marking once he breaks the curse. “I am nervous. What if he does not return my affections?”

To his surprise, the witch turns serious and comes to sit beside him. “I have seen how he looks at you,” she says.

“It means nothing,” the prince counters softly.

“And now you’re an expert?” the witch argues. James shrugs and lets out a forlorn sigh, to which she pats his knee. “He is torn when he leaves your bed before first light and stays as long as possible to watch you sleep.”

James glances at her and has to look away as his eyes start to sting. “Are you certain?”

“I’ve seen it with my own two eyes,” she insists.

The prince sniffs. “I have no reason to believe you,” he intones.

“True,” the witch replies. “But believe it or not, I do not wish you to fail.”

James opens his mouth to say something when he hears the gates opening and the sound of Firefoot neighing. “He’s back,” the prince states, his voice hoarse.

“You should go on with it then,” the witch tells him. She smacks his shoulder with her hand. “Go on! The sun is setting in less than an hour and I’m sure you two will be plenty busy once you tell him.”

The prince rises to his feet, running his palms over his trousers. He hears Éomer’s voice booming through the courtyard as he speaks to one of the stable boys and feels his heart constrict in his chest. James turns to the witch, only to find her gone once more. “Typical,” he mutters before setting off to find the king.

Éomer is in his study, still wearing his uniform and dusty cloak when James locates him. He hesitates at first, then decides to knock on the doorframe, earning the king’s attention. “Foundling prince,” Éomer greets with a smile. “You have found me in disarray. I have just returned from cavalry drills.”

“I heard Firefoot in the courtyard,” James admits as he steps inside the study.

The king grins at this. “Ah, so you were awaiting my return then?” he teases, coming around the desk and approaching the prince. “It seems you are eager to see me.”

“I love you,” James finds himself blurting out. He shuts his mouth as soon as the words leave it, unrehearsed and without any charm whatsoever. The prince feels his cheeks burning and glances down at his feet, waiting for Éomer to speak. He looks back up and sees the gobsmacked expression on his lover’s face.

The king furrows his brows and opens his mouth, only to shut it again. He shifts from one foot to the other, then spins around and stalks back to his desk, where he turns his back towards the prince.

“Éomer?” James whispers, watching him and trying to ignore the trembling that seems to start from his knees and spreads through his body. “Please say something.”

His lover shifts so that they are looking at each other. “I thought,” he begins to say, then stops. Éomer clears his throat. “I thought we were only in this for our mutual benefit.”

James feels his breath rushing out of his lungs as he stumbles backward towards the door upon the realization of the king’s reply. “You don’t…” he whispers, steadying himself against a table.

“Foundling prince,” Éomer calls, worriedly. He takes a step forward, only to be stopped by James holding up a hand.

The prince shakes his head, not bothering to hide the tears forming in his eyes. “Please forgive me,” he tells his lover quietly. “If I have offended you or read into your actions more than I should, it was not my intention.”

“James,” the king says, itching to grab him.

He backs into another table and nearly knocks it on the floor, but James manages to catch it in time. “I’m fine,” he insists as a tear falls down his cheek. He wipes it away with the back of his hand and forces a smile to appease Éomer’s concern. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

James hurries to leave the room before the king can stop him and breaks into a run as soon as he turns a corner. It’s a small mercy that the prince does not meet anyone from Éomer’s household while he flees its walls.

His heartbroken cries come just as he arrives at the temple. The prince latches onto one of the columns and uses it to guide his descent to the ground, where he continues to weep. James clutches his midsection and curls into himself while his surroundings go unnaturally still. “He does not love me,” he chokes out. “You lied to me…”

“I did no such thing!” the witch counters when she appears. She leans over the prince, tilting her head as she watches him cry. “He does love you.”

James shakes his head. “He does not,” he replies, looking up at her as tears continue to course down his face. “Éomer wants me for pleasure; he has no other feelings towards me.”

“Then your horse lord is lying!” the witch declares quite shrilly.

The prince’s face collapses as another fit of tears overwhelms him. He turns his head, catching a glimpse of the hourglass. “Please go away,” James begs. “Leave me be!”

“Absolutely not!” she says as she reaches out and forces the young man to look at her. “You are giving up far too easily, but if that is what you want, you will forget he ever existed in mere moments.”

James’ chin trembles at her words. “I don’t want to forget him,” he whispers before removing himself from the witch’s grasp. He pays no heed to her cursing nor when she slams her staff against the ground for the prince’s grief proves to be far too much.

 

* * *

 

Éomer ponders what the prince had told him as it seems like moments ago James was here, but then he remembers the stricken expression on his lover’s face, causing his heart to ache. 

The king has no idea what came over him; the confession should have elated him, but instead he lacked the courage to return it with a declaration of his own. And now James has disappeared to find a bit of solitude. Éomer can only guess where and he fears that approaching him will only make the prince leave Rohan in haste before the king has the chance to fix this terrible wrong.

The mere thought of James returning to Andalasia makes him sick to his stomach. He is about to rise to his feet to seek out the wayward prince when he hears noises coming from his bath chambers. The king wonders if one of the maids is still cleaning until a string of muttering and cursing rings through the walls.

Without a single thought, Éomer leaps to his feet and removes his dagger from its sheath as he approaches the bath chamber. He kicks open the door and gasps when he sees a blue haired old crone standing in the middle of the room. “How did you get in here?”

“Dusty and holding a weapon,” she says, unimpressed. “You must be the one that James is all in knots over.”

Éomer raises a brow. “What about him?” he asks, raising the dagger. “If you have hurt him, I will make you regret it!”

“Between the two of you, I don’t know who is more idiotic,” the old crone declares, flicking her wrist. The dagger flies out of the king’s hand and into her own. “It seems that you and I are due for a quick chat, your majesty.”

Éomer stands in mild shock as he watches the old crone, evidently a witch, inspecting his dagger. 

He glances down at his hand, knowing that he was holding it moments ago. It’s safe to say that the king has seen peculiar things in his lifetime, especially during the War of the Ring, but he had really hoped that it had ended when the battle had. “Where is James?”

“Still weeping at the temple, I suspect,” the crone replies before pocketing the dagger. She looks at him, her eyes unreadable. “You really did a number on him, horse lord. I do hope you plan on fixing it and, I daresay, soon.”

Her words pull at his heart and Éomer bows his head in shame. “I did not mean to hurt him,” he tells her.

“That’s what all men say,” the crone sighs. “Most don’t mean it, but there are few who do.” She hobbles over to him and tilts her face up at him, seemingly trying to read him. “The question, do you mean it? Truly?”

Éomer draws himself to his full height and snarls. “I don’t say what I do not mean,” he counters, angrily.

“Oh, so you did mean it when you told James that you were only in your arrangement for mutual benefit?” the witch asks, raising a brow. She delights in the king’s stuttering response and taps her staff against his shoulder. “You seem surprised that he told me.”

The king clenches his jaw. “If you are here to mock our pain…” he begins to threaten.

“Mock? No. Set everything in the right order? Yes.”

“He will not speak to me after what I’ve done,” Éomer tells the witch, sounding resigned. “I have wounded him too deeply.”

The witch groans. “Because he thinks that you do not love him,” she says.

“I should have told him that I return his affections,” the king intones.

“Well you better do it quickly and before sunset!” the witch declares as she grabs his arm and starts hauling Éomer towards the door. “Or you’ll be too late in breaking the curse.”

The king yanks his arm back and shouts, “What curse?”

“The young prince is cursed,” she explains. “He must find his true love and earn their love in return before time runs out, which is in…” She glances at the sun as she walks towards the door of his chambers. “…less than ten minutes.”

Éomer feels his stomach churn. “How do you know he’s cursed?” he asks as he follows her.

“I’m the one who cursed him,” the witch says so casually. She turns around and nods. “Trust me, it was for the best.  He was quite a prat when I met him!”

“You cursed him!” Éomer yells.

The witch rolls her eyes. “That is besides the point, horse lord,” she retorts. “You are wasting precious time by standing here and shouting at me when you should be seeking out your sea prince and telling him that you do love him.”

Before the king can reply, she disappears in a wisp of blue smoke. Éomer begins to wonder if he’s imagined the entire exchange when he remembers that he must go to James as soon as possible. He hurries towards the temple, running the entire way despite the ache in his body and burning in his legs from the day’s cavalry drills.

He comes to the perimeter of the temple and charges through the gates to find his surroundings eerily silent, too silent. Éomer begins to wander as the sun sets over the horizon. “James?” he calls as he climbs the steps to the temple. “Foundling prince?”

His heart starts to beat faster, out of nerves since the sunset is dangerously drawing to a close. Éomer groans in frustration; the witch never said what would happen to the prince if he fails to break the curse. Will James die or fall into a deep slumber, never to wake? Will he turn into an amphibian of some sort?

The king heads down the other side when he stops and lets out a gasp, not realizing that the last of the sun has disappeared over the horizon as he finds James lying on the marble steps. “James!” he shouts, his voice echoing through the temple.

Éomer rushes to his lover’s side and gathers his unconscious form into his arm. He feels for breath and to the king’s great relief, a gust of hot air comes from James’ nostrils. “Foundling prince,” Éomer whispers, ignoring the way his voice cracks and buries his face into the younger man’s hair.

He lifts his head as tears ran down his cheeks and disappear into his beard. “I am so sorry,” the king tells the collapsed prince. “I should have never said that I was in this for my benefit; it was wrong of me to lie to you.”

Éomer lifts his head and peers down at James, taking note of the dried tears on his skin and the way his feature relax when he’s sleeping. “I scarcely allowed myself to act upon my feelings for you and thought believed that you could never return them, my sea prince,” he says, stroking the younger man’s cheek with his finger.  “It would have been too much to hope, but it’s true; I love you. I love you so dearly and I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

Without another declaration, the king gently presses his lips against James’ before lifting the prince off the ground and carrying him back to his home. As soon as he sets foot inside, Éowyn spots them and shouts for Dwareclya, who appears quickly.

“Take him to his chambers,” she orders. “I’ll need to examine him.”

Éomer goes the opposite way, towards his own rooms, and is relieved that his sister and the healer follow without question.

“What on earth happened?” Éowyn asks.  She rushes ahead to open the door to her brother’s chambers, her face pale with worry.

The king swallows. “He was like this when I found him,” Éomer replies as he slips inside.

“On the bed,” Dwareclya states. She sets her bag down on the bedside table while the king lays James on the mattress and Éowyn starts to light candles so that the healer may see.

Éomer moves to the foot of the bed and stands quietly as he watches his sister and Dwareclya examine his lover. He grips the footboard, digging his fingers into the wood while silently praying that James will recover. The king wishes that the witch would appear again, to tell him of what will happen since the curse was not broken.

“He must have fallen and hit his head,” the healer declares as she handles James with gentle hands. She goes to pinch the prince’s arm, earning a groan. “Fear not, my lord, your foundling prince will join us once again but with a splitting headache.”

Not even Dwareclya’s dimpled smile can alleviate Éomer’s worries. He is shooed from his own rooms while his sister and the healer clean James and make him comfortable while he lies in the king’s bed. He stands next to the door, anxiously gnawing on his fingernail until Éowyn pokes her head out.

“You are going to have a fit if you keep fretting, my heart,” she teases as Éomer brushes passed her to be at James’ bedside. Once Dwareclya has left them, Éowyn studies her brother who is holding one of James’ hands between his own. “Dearest, is everything alright?”

Éomer nods, his eyes never leaving the prince’s face. “It will be when he wakes,” he intones. Those are the last words the king speaks until morning.

At some point during his vigil, Éomer succumbs to the pull of sleep, only waking when the morning sun dances across his eyelids. He grunts in complaint and moves his head out of the way while palming his face. The king opens his eyes and notices that James is beginning to stir from his deep slumber. “Foundling prince?” he inquires, watching as the younger man’s lashes beat against the tops of his cheekbones before opening. “James?”

The prince turns his head towards Éomer’s voice and closes his eyes once more. His features wrinkle in discomfort, from a headache more likely than not. James tilts his head towards the king and clears his throat. A sliver of blue iris appears, followed by his hoarse voice. “Where am I?”

“You are in my chambers,” Éomer tells him, rising to sit on the bed. He watches confusion spreading on his lover’s face, as if he does not recall being there before. “Do you know yourself?”

James ponders this for a while, his silence awfully telling. His eyes dart around the room, searching for anything that seems familiar. “No,” he finally replies, soundly frightened.

“Your name is James,” Éomer says. “Prince James of Andalasia. You are currently in Rohan, my kingdom.”

The young man’s anxiety seems to settle a bit after receiving this information. “James,” he repeats, testing the name on his tongue. He turns to Éomer and shyly asks, “Who are you?”

“My name is Éomer,” he explains, reaching for James’ hand. “You came here because of a shipwreck and were nursed back to health.”

He watches as the prince studies his face, not saying a word for quite some time. The king can only guess what James is thinking; who is this man? why am I here? “I dreamt of you,” the younger man says with certainty.

“You dreamt of me?”

James nods, relaxing against the pillows. “I dreamt of you. We were surrounded by trees and you told me of apples,” he elaborates. He tilts his head and licks his lips. “What are we to one another?”

“We are lovers,” Éomer tells him, unsure of if he should move closer. He sighs deeply and looks down at his hands rather than look James in the eye. “You were cursed by a witch before you arrived here; I didn’t know this when I came upon on the beach.” He pauses, swallowing down his sorrow and guilt. “You were to find your true love and earn their love in return or you would forget yourself.”

He can feel the prince’s gaze upon him, watching and waiting for Éomer to continue. The king dares to look up and sees James. “I was a coward and I failed you, foundling prince,” he confesses. “I am sorrier than you’ll ever know. And I do love you.”

“You do?” the prince says in awe.

Éomer chuckles and leans over him, bringing a hand to cup James’ chin. “Yes,” he says. “I love you, my foundling prince.”

“Aren’t you supposed to kiss me?” James asks with a sweet grin on his lip.

“I was awaiting your permission.”

The prince’s grin broadens into a smile and he nods. Éomer returns it as he leans closer and closer until their lips touch. He takes his time in deepening it, slowly licking his way into James’ mouth. The king nibbles on the younger man’s lip and soothes it over with his tongue, remembering that his lover always moaned when he did that.

He gets the same reaction much to his delight and has to laugh. Éomer presses a kiss against James’ mouth, more gently this time, and pulls back to view the look on the prince’s face.

“You’re much prettier than I am,” James says, somewhat stunned.

Éomer can’t help it when he starts laughing harder. He pecks the prince’s forehead and leans back to wipe his eyes. “Aye, but you have not seen yourself, foundling prince,” he teases.

They continue to speak to each other, even when Dwareclya comes to check her patient. Once she had left, Éomer crawls into bed with James and wraps his arms around the prince, where they talk of inconsequential things until they both fall asleep.

Unbeknownst to them, a small whirl of blue smoke evaporates from outside Éomer’s bedroom window; the only indication that someone has been watching them.

 

* * *

 

As for the rest of our cast of characters, they all find resolution to varying degrees. 

Prince Samuel and his bride, Rapunzel eventually make their way back to the kingdom of Andalasia some months after James set off to find them. The young couple encounters some trouble along the way and are separated in a storm, in which Rapunzel takes refuge in a stable. As she sits miserable and soaking wet, a young boy by the name of Jack comes in to check on his cow, Milky White, and stumbles upon her.

Jack, a good lad and a bit of a dreamer, invites her to join his party for a warm meal and dry clothes. To the lovely Rapunzel’s surprise, Cinderella is amongst his entourage along with a little girl in a red cloak. Happy to see a familiar face, Rapunzel joins their party and travels with them as they make their way back to Andalasia.

There she stays with them in a comfortable home that includes a baker and his infant son. Cinderella explains whilst blushing that the baker is her business partner, though Rapunzel knows blossoming love when she sees it. She seeks to make a love-match between them and succeeds, much to the delight of the three children as well as herself.

Rapunzel also discovers through the bedtime stories that the baker tells the children that he is her long lost brother and they have a joyous reunion just as Prince Samuel arrives back in the kingdom. Because of their generosity and kind hearts, as well as familial relations, the prince bestows an estate upon the baker and makes him the official baker of Andalasia.

The royal steward, Stuart, returns to the kingdom after a rough voyage and is given a pension so he can retire, which he does very quietly in the country and far from any bodies of water.

Thanks to a lively correspondence between Queen Winona and the Lady Éowyn, the queen is informed of her son’s fate as well as his apparent amnesia. She decides that Samuel would be better suited to be king, as he has settled down and seems to have matured through his misadventure.

So she writes to Éowyn to say that James is allowed to remain in Rohan with his beloved, Éomer. It is perhaps the first selfless act the queen has done and she feels quite content as she sends the letter to be delivered.

As for our prince and his horse lord, they live happily together and seem to fall more in love as each day passes. James doesn’t worry about his lost memories as Éomer is helping him create new ones. The entire kingdom waits for their betrothal with bated breath and delayed happiness as their king is a private fellow.

Their engagement happens in an apple orchard, where Éomer and James are picnicking. A full year has passed since they were unable to break the witch’s curse and while it should be a somber day, the king and prince are too busy laughing in the afternoon sun to even think about it.

James rests his chin on Éomer’s chest and grins at his lover, who holds him closer. “When should we head back?” he asks. “I suspect Éowyn will be expecting us before dinnertime.”

Éomer shrugs, watching as the prince rests his cheek against him. “Whenever you want to, my foundling prince,” the king says.

“Then we shall sleep out here,” James teases.

The king chuckles as he cards his fingers through his lover’s hair. “A cold front is supposed to come in this evening,” he reminds James.

“Fine,” the younger man sighs, resigned. “We leave when you want.”

Éomer smiles. “You must answer a question first,” he tells the prince, whose head pops up with a curious expression on his face. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my husband?”

James’ mouth goes slack, soon joined by tears appearing in his eyes. He nods, unable to form the words to reply and launches himself into Éomer’s arms. He pulls back to look upon the king. “I love you,” he manages to say.

“And I you,” Éomer replies before drawing James into a kiss.

Much to both of their surprise, as soon as their lips touch a spark ignites between them. The king and the prince jump back to stare at each other.

“What was that?” the older man questions.

James looks around, searching the orchard and then turns back to Éomer. “I remember,” he stammers, scratching his head.

“You remember?” Éomer asks.

“I remember,” James repeats. “I remember everything.” His face breaks out in pure happiness and he reaches for his beloved king. “I remember you.”

Éomer doesn’t reply, but he does kiss the prince until their lips are red and swollen.

Hidden behind a tree is the witch, who watches the scene in delight. Remorseful for what pain she had caused the prince and the horse lord, she cast another spell upon them; when either of them proposed marriage and the other accepted, James’ memory would be restored.

Because of this, the curse placed upon her by her mother was broken and her beauty was restored without the loss of her powers. The witch, now happy and at least with herself, decides to become a fairy godmother, as it is far more rewarding than causing mischief.

Needless to say, James and Éomer wed a few weeks later and they lived in happiness for the rest of their days.  

As they should because this is a fairy tale, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Update - 2/9/2018: Made this story one chapter instead of multiple ones. My apologies if any comments were deleted in the process.


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